Aftermath
by Lil black dog
Summary: It's never a good thing when the CMO starts seeing things…a fleshed-out version of my short from 'Moments' entitled 'I Thought I Might Die.'  Written for Firegrace.


**A/N:** This piece evolved thanks to a request from Firegrace, who wanted to know what happened in the hours and days following 'I Thought I Might Die' from 'Moments.' That short is the prologue here. The entire story is darker and heavier than my usual work, so be warned.

This does tie into my story 'Learning Curve,' as well as ever-so-slightly into 'Star Trek V: The Final Frontier.' If you blink, you'll miss it. ;-) You don't really need in-depth knowledge of either for this story to make sense.

Beta: T'Paya and Mackenzie Calhoun were kind enough to do a brain check on this for me to make sure it could stand on its own. ;-)

Edit 12/17/11: Normally, I'm not one given to begging for feedback, but seriously? One cursory review? If there are significant problems with this piece, please let me know. If it touched you in some way, I'd love to hear about that as well. I can't hope to improve if I don't know what I'm doing wrong...or right, after all...

**Aftermath**

**Prologue – I Thought I Might Die**

_USS _Enterprise_, stardate 6234.7  
>In orbit, planet Beta Carinae V<br>1700 hours_

"I was sure I was going to die, but was so afraid I wouldn't in time."

The captain traded a look of total confusion with the Vulcan standing at his side, turning his focus back to the figure lying on the biobed. He placed a reassuring hand on the older man's shoulder.

"It doesn't matter, Bones, you're safe now. We found you just in the nick of time."

oooOOOooo

_Three hours earlier._

"Let's check out that colony of critters clinging to the rocks over there," he said, moving gingerly across the long, narrow formation jutting out into the sea, the pounding surf sending up a mist of frigid water which cascaded over them in tiny, sparkling droplets. "This environment seems so inhospitable. I can't believe anything other than mollusks or barnacles could survive here, yet they seem to be thriving."

He and Lieutenant Rodgers proceeded as close to the edge as they dared, tricorders clicking and pinging as they correlated the data being fed to them. The undulating blanket of water, which had been relatively calm moments before, chose that instant to snap and crackle with a vengeance. The monstrous wave came out of nowhere, knocking both men off their feet, dragging them across the slippery surface of the weatherworn stone, tumbling them end over end like small pebbles as it fought to retreat to the depths from whence it came.

He scrabbled for a handhold, a foothold – anything to keep him from being swept off the oversized outcropping and plunged into the ebb and flow of the pulsing eddies below. His fingers finding a tiny fissure, he held on for dear life, his legs and lower torso dangling over the edge, groping for traction, fighting the urge to draw breath as the translucent, briny wall flowed over him on its return journey.

Once the wave receded, he tried to clamber to his feet. But one leg refused to cooperate, his ankle now wedged snugly between two razor-sharp projections of igneous rock. Several tugs at the stubborn appendage only succeeded in locking it more firmly in place.

His gaze scouring the uneven jumble of bony landscape stretched out before him, he called for his companion in vain. His eyes finally settled on the blue-clad form, limp and lifeless, bobbing on the ripples of the retreating waves.

Panic gripped him in that instant as he was transported back to his youth, barefoot, ankle-deep in rushing water sucking the sand from beneath his feet, paralyzed by the dreadful, high-pitched screams emanating from the woman several meters to his right. Profound helplessness and a morbid sense of fascination kept him rooted to the spot, unable to look away from the lurid scene unfolding before him. The blood-curdling screams turned to inconsolable sobs as she watched first her son, and then her husband, disappear, snatched by the merciless, angry current propelling them ever farther away from shore. Their heads finally sank below the shifting surface, never to reemerge from the roiling depths again.

It was like reliving what had happened to Forrest and Mr. Tatum all over again. It had taken him many years to get over that singular incident. No eight-year-old should ever have to watch his best friend and that friend's father drown.

He was shivering uncontrollably now, partly due to the memory but mostly due to the ice-cold water pummeling him at regular intervals. He fumbled for his communicator with numb fingers, wasn't surprised to find it had been stripped off his hip along with his phaser, medikit, and the tricorder that had been in his hands. Cupping bruised and bloodied palms around his mouth he called out, knowing his words were being whisked away almost instantly, entombed by the crash of the unrelenting waves and the harsh whisper of the stiff, incessant breeze. There was no chance the other members of the landing party would hear his cries for help.

The march of time ceased; the roar of the waves and the distant cries of seabirds now frozen in place on the wind as the echoes of the past once again swallowed him whole. How much time had passed he never did come to know, but the world started turning again as he realized to his horror that the tide was coming in; water that had been lapping at his heels in what felt like only minutes before now pooling around his waist.

_Lord help me, I'm going to drown_, he thought bitterly, teeth chattering against the cold and all-consuming fear. _My only hope is to die of hypothermia before I'm totally under water._ A derisive chuckle bubbled up unexpectedly from within. He knew space was a dangerous place, but he'd always thought technology would be his undoing, that he'd meet his Maker due to a bizarre transporter accident, by succumbing to some weird, incurable illness contracted on some distant, far-flung world, or at the very least at the business end of a Klingon disruptor.

He put his head down, closing his eyes, no longer wanting to see the swirl of the violent, frothy blue sea as it crept ever closer. The tremors wracking his body stopped abruptly and he felt himself drifting, enveloped by a sudden rush of warmth, of peace, when he heard a voice calling his name. It sounded like Jim, but the face he saw against the black of his eyelids was that of his father. The time had come to face his demons.

_Don't worry dad, I'll be joining you soon, one way or another…_

oooOOOooo

**Chapter One - Aftermath**

_Six days later_

He was in his office, seated at his desk, oblivious to the numerous stacks of paperwork and reports spread out before him. He couldn't stop thinking about it. There was no explanation, other than his time in space was finally causing him to lose his marbles. _Can't believe it didn't happen sooner_, he thought dourly.

It had been a routine assignment as a member of a routine landing party, scouting out a routine planet yesterday. But when he'd looked into that crystal clear, tranquil pool, what he'd seen had been _anything_ but routine.

Before his very eyes, a flat, melon-sized, algae-covered rock resting well below the surface had morphed into the face of his childhood friend Forrest – a boy he hadn't seen in over thirty years. He'd blinked, hoping to clear away the shimmering, distorted specter of the smiling nine-year-old face but it had remained fixed there, as if frozen in time, just out of reach.

It had been months since he'd thought about Forrest – the last time during his leave on Triani Prime with Jim and Spock, in fact, but then last week, when…he'd closed his eyes and swallowed hard, feeling the chilling, merciless tremors wrack him once again, the taste of brine filling his mouth, his clothes suddenly heavy, clinging wetly to his body.

That had been the landing party from Hell. He'd been certain he was going to die on that desolate, windswept stretch of alien coastline. If Jim and Spock hadn't found him when they did…

Brushing a shaking hand over his forehead, he'd fought to wipe the unwelcome images and sensations from his mind. _Get a grip, McCoy_, he'd told himself, drawing a deep, hitched breath. _He's not here – he can't be – he drowned on Earth thirty-three years ago, and you're not trapped, awaiting the same fate._

He had returned his gaze to the water, certain the ethereal face from his past would have vanished, but the image remained. Caught totally off guard, he watched in horror as it transformed into the likeness of Lieutenant Rodgers for a split second, and then back into that of his friend. The boy's face, framed by a tangle of gently waving blond hair, was now bloated and distorted, the skin stretched almost to the breaking point, the eyes open, the once-vibrant orbs clouded over, gray, being nibbled at by tiny, voracious fish.

He'd started to back away from the edge of the pool as a waterlogged, pallid hand slowly reached for him, the sagging skin wrinkled, waxen; almost translucent. A tiny voice called to him…

"Doctor McCoy?" A pause as a weight settled onto his shoulder, causing him to start violently.

He glanced down in horror, expecting to see the bony, lifeless hand from the surreal apparition that had accosted him yesterday, but it was warm and pink. Wrenching his gaze upward he found himself staring into a pair of worried blue eyes.

"Doctor, are you okay? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

"You just startled me is all, Nurse," he snapped. "Don't you know you shouldn't be sneaking around, scaring people to within an inch of their life?" He stopped abruptly. His admonishment of her had come out far more harshly than he'd intended. Reaching for an ephemeral calm, he addressed her again, softer this time. "Is there something you need, Christine?"

She eyed him dubiously, not fooled for an instant. "You asked me to remind you when it was time to introduce a bit of Mister Spock's DNA into the colony of synthetic skin cells we're growing, in hopes of coming up with a substance his body won't reject." Synthetic skin had a much longer shelf life than its naturally-made counterpart, and would be available instantly in the event the Vulcan was to suffer an injury requiring a skin graft. McCoy had been trying to find the time for weeks to see if the experimental procedure would work.

"Well, I'm reminding you…sir." She straightened up, folding her arms across her chest, regarding him carefully.

"Ah yes, thank you," he said, climbing to his feet, rearranging the contents of his desk in a flurry of nervous energy, refusing to meet her eyes. "These can wait," he informed her brusquely, waving a hand over the jumble of PADDs and colorful tapes. "You know how much I hate paperwork, anyway. Shall we?" he said, indicating the lab adjoining his office.

Chapel could only nod her head mutely, totally dumbfounded by what she had just witnessed. McCoy turned and strode purposely for the door leading to the lab, her steps echoing softly behind him.

oooOOOooo

Stifling a yawn behind his hand, he surreptitiously surveyed the bridge. It was a pretty boring shift, and that was just fine with him. They'd been through a lot in the last few months – his crew deserved the occasional milk run now and then. They'd completed their two-day survey of Acamar III yesterday, and were currently en route to Starbase 12 to offload their data and samples, and to pick up some much-needed supplies.

His gaze traveled leisurely about the room. Sulu and Chekov were engaged in one of their typical debates, quietly talking shop in hushed tones, careful to make sure their voices didn't carry beyond their own console. Kirk smiled to himself. They were both exceptional junior officers, but here the emphasis was on 'junior.' It had been many years since he'd allowed himself to engage in a similar type of conversation with members of the crew.

He glanced over his left shoulder at the engineering station. Scotty was sitting stock-still, an elbow propped on the console, cheek resting against his outstretched palm, staring transfixed into the small viewer before him. The excitement evident in his demeanor suggested a new technical journal, as opposed to a problem with his 'bairns.' He breathed a silent sigh of relief. If Scotty was distracted during his shift, it certainly meant the ship was operating at peak efficiency.

Swiveling his chair, his eyes came to rest on the two figures seated on the opposite side of the bridge. As expected, Spock was hard at work, presumably correlating and downloading the data from their last mission for transfer to the science teams stationed at Starbase 12. His gaze traveled to the communications station next. Uhura was in the midst of running a routine diagnostic test on her console, humming softly to herself, her nimble fingers playing expertly over the controls before her, one hand traveling intermittently between the panel and her silver earpiece.

The sense of normalcy, of 'business as usual' that he was feeling was interrupted by the screech of the intercom on his armrest. He thumbed the switch, an unexplained shiver of unease running through him.

"Kirk here."

"_Captain_?" A slight hesitation ensued.

"Yes. What is it Nurse Chapel?"

"_Well…uh…I was wondering if you could meet me in Briefing Room Two. I've got a pressing matter that I believe requires your attention_."

His curiosity was more than a little piqued, his edginess growing. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Spock had turned and was following the conversation. "With regard to…?" he prompted.

"_I'd rather not say over the comm unit, sir, but I _really_ need to talk to you."_ Her voice was heavy with concern, despite the metallic sound imparted by the intercom.

"Okay, Nurse. I'll meet you there in ten minutes. Kirk out." He climbed to his feet, heading for the science station on the upper tier of the bridge. Meeting his first officer's eyes, he knew they had both reached the same conclusion regarding the nature of the 'pressing matter.'

"I'll be back when I can. You have the con, Mister Spock," he called over his shoulder, heading for the turbolift.

oooOOOooo

They were seated comfortably at the table in Briefing Room Two, Kirk sipping at the cup of coffee he'd stopped to get on the way there.

"I can't put my finger on it exactly, Captain, but something is just not right with the doctor," Chapel began hesitantly.

"Explain."

"He just seems tense, distracted; upset by something," she continued anxiously, searching his face with troubled eyes.

"What makes you think so?" Kirk countered immediately, setting his cup down, focusing his full attention on her.

"Well," she began, lacing her fingers together on the table before her, "for starters he's pretty much kept to himself for the last few days. Not that he's ever been the chummiest of bosses, but we do interact on a daily basis, and it's usually not limited to just the professional." She groped for the right words. "But today was the kicker. He was in his office, working on some reports, and I went in to remind him that it was time to begin the next phase of the procedure we were working on. He seemed to be a million light-years away, and didn't respond at all when I spoke to him, several times, in fact. Finally I touched his shoulder, and you would have thought I was about to strap him into a Klingon Mind Sifter or something.

"The look on his face when he finally glanced up at me is one I'll never forget – I've never seen that much naked terror in anyone's eyes before, let alone his. I know on the inside space frightens the hell out of him sometimes, but you'd never know it to look at him – he's always so calm and professional on the outside—"

"Bones?" Kirk interjected, more than a little surprised; he could think of numerous instances where McCoy had been anything but calm and professional.

"Well…uh…maybe that wasn't the best way to phrase it, Captain," she conceded. "When the situation demands it, he exhibits an unshakable focus – like he did when he was performing open heart surgery on Mr. Spock's father while the Orions were trying to blast the ship out of existence." She paused briefly. "It's after the fact that he tends to get upset, or emotional." She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"I know it bothered him when we lost Tormolin, but I didn't see that until much later; after he'd solved the problem of the Psi 2000 virus. My point is, he'll usually stew over things for a few hours – a day or two at most – and then move on. Whatever's gotten hold of him this time has been troubling him for close to a week now, with today being the worst day yet. It's just unsettling, sir," she finished uneasily.

"I see," Kirk replied, a fist pressed to his chin, a finger absently stroking his lips.

"I just feel _awful_, going behind his back like this, sir, but clearly there's a problem and if things aren't resolved soon, the next step will be to go to Doctor M'Benga, which could cause him to be placed on indefinite medical leave." She met his gaze squarely. "I really don't want to go that route, Captain, if I can at all avoid it."

Kirk paused briefly before responding. He and Spock had been discussing this very thing, not eighteen hours ago. To them McCoy seemed withdrawn, morose, reluctant even to engage in the verbal gymnastics that marked his unconventional friendship with the Vulcan. "Mister Spock and I have also noticed that McCoy doesn't seem to be himself lately. As a matter of fact, I'd already planned to try to talk to him about it tonight. I suspect it has something to do with that close call he had last week."

Chapel's relief was readily apparent. "Me, too but I know he won't confide in me – he's way too stubborn and proud to admit that something's bothering him – at least to me, anyway."

"Unfortunately, I have to consider the safety of my crew first. Do you believe the health of anyone under his care at the moment could be compromised by this?"

"No," she replied quickly, confidently. "We don't have any critical cases right now, and he performed flawlessly when we did that emergency appendectomy on Ensign Woo Ling the other day. He seems to do better when his mind is occupied. It's the down-time that appears to be causing the trouble; giving him the time to brood over whatever's eating at him. And right now, we have more down-time on our hands than usual. I'm just worried that things might get worse, and start affecting him professionally."

"Well, keep an eye on him for the rest of his shift, Nurse, and notify me at once if there are any problems or if you have any concerns whatsoever. For his sake, I'd like to keep this off the record, too. For now it seems like things are under control so I won't relieve him of duty, but I'll definitely be paying him a visit later this evening."

The tension melted from her face. "Thank you, Captain – I knew you'd understand." She rose quickly to her feet. "And now, I'd better get back to sickbay before he misses me and starts to get suspicious."

"Very well. Carry on, Nurse…and thanks."

oooOOOooo

He'd just returned from the ship's pool. He hadn't gone there to swim. He wanted to see if looking at the water triggered a similar response to the one he'd had on Acamar III, but thankfully after an hour of sitting in the bleachers, ostensibly watching the swim team practice, that hadn't been the case.

_Then what the hell set me off down there_? he wondered. _The temperature? The breeze? A certain smell? It's not like I've been given to hallucinations in the past. _He splashed cold water onto his face and glanced down into the full basin of his bathroom sink, but no dead eyes stared back at him. Releasing his breath slowly, he met the blue eyes reflected in the mirror squarely, allowing himself a small grimace. _It must have been a one-time thing,_ he said to himself,_ but if it happens again, I've got to go to Jim. I can't take the chance that a member of the crew may suffer because I'm off my rocker._

His thoughts were disturbed by the buzzer to his cabin. Hurriedly mopping at his face, he stepped into the bedroom area of his quarters. "Come," he called, tossing the used towel onto his bed.

Kirk entered, a bottle and two glasses in hand. "Hi Bones," he began without preamble, depositing the items on McCoy's desk. "I thought we'd share a drink."

"Wow! Saurian brandy, and from your private stash too. Breaking out the good stuff are we? To what do I owe the honor?" he asked warily.

Kirk seated himself and began filling the two large brandy snifters, holding one out to the doctor. "I just came to express my gratitude," he informed McCoy, sipping at his own glass.

"For what?" McCoy asked skeptically, slipping into the empty chair opposite Kirk.

"For the sound advice you gave me on Triani Prime. I know I can be stubborn and pig-headed to a fault at times, but you were right, and it really paid off. I never thanked you properly for that." Kirk was regarding him intently over the rim of his glass.

McCoy took a healthy pull at his own. "Well, I told you at the time it just killed me to see you and Spock at odds with each other like that. I'm just glad it helped, and worked, and that you were able to get Spock to open up to you. He tends to not be forthcoming about important personal matters."

"Well, you certainly haven't lost your talent for understatement," Kirk replied, grinning. His look quickly sobered. "Which brings me to the other reason I'm here: Spock isn't my only friend who's reluctant to talk about things that are bothering him." The hazel eyes softened, full of concern. "How are you, Bones?"

"Don't you start on me, too," he countered defensively. "I've gotten enough of that crap from my Head Nurse for the last few days." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "She put you up to this, didn't she?"

Kirk chose not to implicate her, but his next words confirmed McCoy's misgivings. "She's just worried about you, Bones; we all are."

The doctor swallowed the remainder of his drink in one mighty gulp, shoulders slumping. "Well, if it's any consolation, I'm worried about me, too."

"It's about what happened on Beta Carinae last week, isn't it?" Kirk prodded gently.

"Yes and no," McCoy answered finally, his gaze locked on the empty glass he was absently rolling between his palms. "If only it were that simple."

"Want to tell me about it, Bones? I can't help you if I don't know what the problem is."

"Not really. But I'm betting I don't have much of a choice, right?" McCoy glanced up, and Kirk fixed him with a pointed stare.

"I don't know – I'm not a doctor. You tell me – should I be worried about putting the lives of my crew in your hands right now? That being said, I'd rather not involve M'Benga and Starfleet Medical if I don't have to." The personal concern he'd seen in Kirk's eyes moments before had shifted to a professional concern for the people under his command.

That did nothing to dispel the flood of gratitude McCoy felt. "Thanks, Jim – I really appreciate that, but you may have to report it after all."

Kirk refrained from answering, granting the doctor time to gather himself before continuing.

"If you hadn't come here tonight I was toying with the idea of coming to you, and asking that I be temporarily removed from duty."

"But why? Is it really that bad?"

"It's never a good sign when you start seeing things," McCoy supplied in a hushed whisper.

"_Seeing_ things? What kind of things?" Kirk demanded.

"The face of a boy who's been dead for thirty-three years." The doctor paused, his eyes vacant, refilling his glass with a trembling hand.

"When? Where?"

"Yesterday, during landing party duty on Acamar III."

"More than once?" Kirk asked, the hazel eyes sparkling with intensity, his brow furrowed with worry. He'd been totally unprepared for that development.

"No. Just the one incident so far." To McCoy's great relief, Kirk didn't press him for additional information; he wasn't ready to share the particulars of that experience yet. "Not for lack of trying, though. I've been attempting to trigger a repeat performance, but so far it hasn't happened. I suppose I can take that as a positive, for what it's worth." He took another hardy swallow from his glass before his troubled gaze sought out Kirk's. "Remember what I told you on Triani Prime?"

"You watched your friend and his dad drown when you were eight," Kirk supplied gently.

"Well, I hadn't thought about it in years, until the memory was dredged up during that shore leave thanks to your dumbass antics." He glanced sharply at Kirk and watched as the captain's cheeks flushed, a wave of contrition passing over the handsome, boyish features.

"At the time it was painful, but I didn't dwell on it or anything. But last week…when I almost drowned myself…" McCoy dropped his eyes, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, unable to continue.

"It made you realize firsthand what your friend must have gone through, and at such a young age," Kirk finished softly.

McCoy nodded his head, unwilling to trust his voice at the moment. _Damn, that man's a good judge of people_ he thought idly. _He'd have made a great psychiatrist._

Clearing his throat, the doctor continued quietly. "You know, when Forrest drowned, even as a kid I knew that it was a bad way to go – one of the worst, in fact – but I had no idea just how bad, how terrifying, until last week." His face darkened. "Helluva thing for a nine-year-old to have to go through."

"Agreed," Kirk said supportively, waiting patiently for his friend to finish his thought.

"And Rodgers; it must have been horrible for him. I can only hope he was knocked unconscious before…before…." The doctor stopped once more, words failing him.

"But Bones, it wasn't your fault – either in the case of your friend or Lieutenant Rodgers," Kirk argued passionately.

"Intellectually, I know that, Jim, but that doesn't make it any easier to overcome the survivor's guilt. Why was I the lucky one? It could just as easily have been me, on either of those occasions."

"Well, I've got a bit of advice for you, Bones; something a good friend once said to me when I was doubting myself; feeling guilty about something I had no control over." He fought to catch the doctor's eye. "'In this galaxy, there is a mathematical probability of over three million Earth-type planets. And in all the universe, three million, million galaxies, just like this one. And in all of that, and perhaps more, only one of each of us; don't destroy the one named Kirk.'"

The doctor bowed his head and the captain climbed to his feet, resting a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't let this destroy you, Bones. You have so much more left to do; so much more to give to the people of this galaxy." Kirk headed for the door, pausing briefly before he tripped the sensor. Turning back to look at McCoy once again an easy, affectionate grin spread over his face. "I'll leave you to ponder that, and won't bother you about this again. I know you'll come to me if this starts to affect your ability to do your job, but just understand that I'm here, if you feel the need to talk about it further – anytime."

McCoy's vision blurred suddenly and he was grateful for the subdued lighting; for the fact that Kirk was several meters away. "Thanks Jim; I will," he managed to squeeze out past the lump in his throat.

Kirk's grin deepened and he turned and headed out into the corridor, the doors swishing closed behind him.

oooOOOooo

**Epilogue**

_Three days later  
>USS <em>Enterprise; _Kirk's quarters  
>2030 hours<em>

"It is your move, Captain."

"Don't rush me, Spock; I'm contemplating the possibilities," he remarked casually, surveying the board carefully.

"The possibilities are few; I'll have you checkmated in three moves, regardless."

The game was close to over; only a smattering of pieces remained for either man. Kirk's fingers closed around his lone bishop. He moved the piece to the top level, capturing Spock's last knight in the process.

The move was met by a raised eyebrow, arms being crossed stiffly across a narrow chest, a soft sigh escaping compressed lips.

Kirk couldn't resist teasing him. "You were saying, Spock?"

"I was saying that Doctor McCoy appears to be returning to his usual, overly-loquacious, highly-emotional self," the Vulcan supplied, adroitly shifting the conversation, his attention focused squarely on the game.

A mischievous smirk tugged at the corners of Kirk's mouth. "Trying to distract me, Spock?" he asked as he watched a long-fingered hand snake out, deftly capturing the offending bishop with a rook.

"No need, Captain. I shall still have you checkmated in three moves," Spock assured him confidently.

"Well, just let me say how very human of you to notice that Bones is on the mend."

"On the contrary, I was quite enjoying the respite from his unnecessary presence on the bridge. The silence was most gratifying. I find myself distracted by the return of his incessant, mundane chatter."

Despite the tenor of the words, Kirk knew it was an attempt to cover the deeper feelings of friendship and affection the Vulcan had for the mercurial surgeon.

"Yeah, I'm glad he's doing better, too," Kirk replied, a wry grin splitting his features. _Don't think for a moment I don't see right through you, Mister_, he mused silently.

The raised eyebrow and affronted expression his second-in-command favored him with was met by a snort of amusement from the captain, who reached out, moving his queen. "That's checkmate, I believe, Mister Spock," he announced smugly, adding insult to injury.

Spock's response was interrupted by the chime of Kirk's doorbell. The doors parted, and McCoy entered before permission had been given.

"Hi, Jim. I figured it was my turn to return the favor…" glancing at the desk, McCoy noticed Spock, seated opposite Kirk. "Sorry, didn't realize you already had company," he stammered. "I'll just come back later—"

But the Vulcan had risen smoothly from his chair. "There is no need, Doctor. The captain and I have completed our game, and now I shall retire to my quarters."

"Don't be silly, Spock – you don't have to leave on my account."

"I can assure you, Doctor, I have never been 'silly.'"

"I don't doubt that for an instant," came the quick rejoinder.

Spock ignored it, eyeing the small bottle of whiskey in the doctor's hand dubiously. "It is obvious the two of you intend to imbibe alcohol, and since I do not customarily engage in this activity, it would be pointless for me to remain."

"What? You're just gonna leave and deprive us of your warm, charismatic presence, Spock? That hardly seems fair," the doctor announced facetiously.

McCoy didn't miss the surreptitious look that passed between captain and first officer before the Vulcan focused his attention on the CMO once again. "I believe the alcohol should provide you with all the warmth you require. As for charisma, your 'Southern Charm' supplies enough of that to encompass the three of us combined, as you are so fond of pointing out, Doctor." The brown eyes raked over the two of them. "And now, if you gentlemen will excuse me," Spock stated gruffly, but it was not lost on the doctor that the eyes that met his before Spock turned to go were…relieved?

The doors closed with a definitive _whoosh_ on the retreating blue back.

"Would you mind telling me what _that_ was all about?" McCoy asked, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder and settling himself in the seat Spock had vacated.

"What, are you saying you _don't_ think you have enough charm and charisma for the three of us combined?" Kirk countered innocently.

"You know what I mean, Jim. He's the last person in the universe to know when he's worn out his welcome, yet in this case he couldn't beat feet out of here fast enough. It's just not like him."

Kirk shrugged his shoulders. "You didn't exactly extend him the most cordial of invitations to stay." The captain paused for a moment. "Besides, I told you everyone was worried about you – Spock included. I guess he just figured it would be best to give us some time alone in case there were additional things you needed to sort out." He hesitated briefly. "Are there?"

"No; at least, not in the way you mean. I just came to let you know there have been no more 'incidents,' and I've put the whole thing behind me."

A wave of relief washed over the captain. The night after their first talk, McCoy had come to him, explaining in great detail what had happened to him on Acamar III. Kirk's reaction had been somewhere between sincere empathy and considerable alarm.

"I realized you were right – for once," McCoy qualified upon seeing a self-satisfied grin materialize on Kirk's face, "so don't let it go to your head," he admonished, waggling a finger at the captain. "Don't get me wrong – it still hurts, but it occurred to me that neither of them would want me to beat myself up over this. I took your sound medical advice and made peace with the way things turned out. Maybe I can't change the fact that I'm the one who's still here, but I can certainly make sure to use that gift productively, as a way to honor them both."

"I'm sure they'd both be pleased with that decision," Kirk agreed softly.

They sat in strained silence for a few long minutes, each man grappling with the enormity of the fate that had befallen those two very different individuals.

Kirk was the first to disturb the somber mood. He favored the older man with a slight frown before dispelling the tension hanging in the air between them with a muted sigh of resignation. "I, for one, could use a drink about now. Are you gonna break out some of that fine whiskey or what?" Kirk asked, indicating the bottle still clutched in McCoy's hand. The captain stood, rummaging in a cabinet and producing two glasses. McCoy filled them, handing one to his commanding officer.

"Here's to you, my friend," Kirk said, clinking his glass against McCoy's. "It's good to have you back, Bones."

FINIS

A/N: For details regarding the events that transpired on Triani Prime, see my story 'Learning Curve.'


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